Pointillism for Astronauts

Is there a point to all this?

Some sense of release hidden behind years of

Doubtful ventures into nothing.

 

Can I outstretch these fastened wings,

And search for some greater feeling,

Than hopelessly just being?

 

Must I have my own permission,

To evolve outside this vacuum?

Become anything more than just myself?

 

Help starts in the home, but I can't help asking:

Where do I go from here,

After letting go of everything?

 

Does something better lie in wait,

Some cleverly disguised outlier?

Or am I only to be met by pain, my solemn-sought companion?

 

Is there anything besides empty space,

Behind spinning thoughts and broken canvases?

Or are we alone here, at the end of the line?

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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